Hot Coffee, Cold Hands

Chapter 1 ♡

Hello, so this is the first chapter! There isn't a lot of speech in this one since its really just an introduction to the whole thing. Please stick with this story, I've got a lot of ideas and hopes for this one! :) Thank you so much for reading! -A x

- "Remember, it's just a bad day-it isn't a bad life."

Also, suggest some people for the cast, if you like! This could be Indie??? ^^^

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There are some things that you really just can't face in the mornings.

For example, the sound of the neighbours annoying dog barking so loud you can't think straight, or maybe you have a younger sibling that likes to bulldoze their way into your bedroom and scare the living crap out of you, who knows?

However, number one on the list has to be when you're suddenly woken up by your pretentious mother yanking open your curtains and dragging you out of the heavenly world of sleep. Especially when it was the beginning of the summer holidays, and I was planning on lying around in my bed for at least until midday.

Yeah, that has to be the worst..

I groaned dramatically, slapping my arm over my face in an attempt to shield my sleep-ridden eyes from the blazing sun. Why the hell did it need to be so bright?

"Why isn't it illegal to get up at this time?" I said, my voice heavily muffled by the cushion.

"Stop being ridiculous India. This is a very important day, and besides, 9:30 is hardly very early." My mother's clipped and sharp tone was my reply.

I nodded into my pillow and grimaced at the sound of my dear old mother calling me by my full name.

Why doesn't she just call me Indie like everyone else does?

Well, I did understand why she insisted on addressing me as India-she thought the name Indie sounded too casual and common for the daughter of 'such a wealthy family', and therefore point blank refused to call me anything but.

Sometimes she even stretched to addressing me to my full full name, including the Allens part and all. Thankfully though, that was reserved solely for the times when I was deemed as being particularly difficult. Which was, in my parent's eyes, around 98% of the time.

I stretched in my cosy bed and looked up at my charming mother.

My mom Corinne Allen was the most prim and proper woman in town, by far. It came with being the wife of one of the most wealthy business men in the town, I suppose. And as far as I was concerned, my mom obviously thought she had a reputation to uphold.

I'd never seen her in anything but pencil shirts and smart blouses, and she took an unnecessary amount of pride in her appearance. Sometimes I'd often wondered whether she got migraines from having her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail so much. Today she wore a red skirt with a black shirt, and a string of pearls delicately encircled her neck. I was always astounded at how she never had a blemish on her skin, a stain on her skirt, a nail with varnish chipped off.

She was simply a woman that craved perfection, and probably that is why we clashed so much. To put it simply, my mother wanted everything to be immaculate, unblemished, and polished at all times, and to be honest, those words didn't even exist in my bank of vocabulary.

I often second guessed if I was even my parent's daughter at all. My parents expected so much from me-they wanted me to be this ideal, obedient daughter that they could show off to their work colleagues and gush about.